


Down the Middle

by Argyle



Category: Good Omens
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-01
Updated: 2006-06-01
Packaged: 2019-02-11 20:46:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12943545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: How many dances must be had until the stars come down from the rafters? (Hertfordshire, 1798)





	Down the Middle

The soup of the evening was a salty broth masquerading in the guise of lobster bisque, and the main entrée was pheasant in a rather runny cream sauce, but the music was quite good. Indeed, it was enough to set Aziraphale’s toe tapping, and he gazed down at his trim, buckled feet with the sort of surprised interest with which one might greet the prodigal sun of English winter. He had somehow supposed that such things only happened to people with names that started with Don and ended with Ova, the odd point, bow, and shift before his dressing table mirror with hands planted firmly to either side of a hovering chair be damned. That was merely a bit of fun, the wing of a lark, but here and now the motion in his toe enveloped his heel. “I say,” he said.

“Don’t bother,” Crowley mumbled, and it was only because Aziraphale stood quite near that he heard him. He folded his arms across his chest and glared out at the room. “Why did we even take the trouble to come?”

“To dance, my dear,” said Aziraphale, feeling the tinny rhythm skirt up his ankle and settle in his knee. This would not do. He forced his leg still. “The invitation was to dance.”

“You didn’t even read the invitation, did you? How d’you know it wasn’t for an exhumation or a lecture on the mating habits of Australian field mice?”

Aziraphale smiled thinly. This was true: he _hadn’t_ read the invitation, but nor had he been given the opportunity to do so. It was exclusively addressed to Crowley, and on the particularly dreary afternoon that he stepped through Aziraphale’s door with his customary swagger, he had pocketed the crisp white card with the same swiftness with which he proffered it. In that moment, seeing the curl of Crowley’s mouth and the glint of rain upon the lace-clad windowpanes, Aziraphale didn’t even pause before he agreed to attend. He had known it to be a flash of folly then, and knew it to be so now, but Crowley’s mouth was still curled. Aziraphale swallowed and glanced away. “Field mice so very rarely take the time to properly scrub themselves up.”

“Hence the bizarre desire to live in a field. Not exactly the most prime of real estate prospects. It’s His way of making things easy for _some_ but not others, am I right?”

“Well, when one is expected to spend one’s time burrowing a dusty hole in the ground, one mustn’t be held accountable for all the ills of the world. You know how it works: and the meek shall inherit--”

“But only the most sharply dressed are allowed in to the party.”

“ _Come_ ,” Aziraphale began, but then decided to let it pass. “Will _you_ be dancing?”

“No,” Crowley said. “Of course not.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes.”

Aziraphale was silent for a several seconds. Then he said, quite simply, “Ah.”

“What?” Crowley asked.

“Nothing. It’s nothing.” He smiled inwardly. “Have you ever seen a mouse with purple spots on?”

“No.”

“Well, there you are, then. Besides which, Gabriel has rather an aversion to them: always munching through cupboards or getting caught underfoot like country cousins who pop by for tea and stay for the rest of their lives. And the fleas? Good _heavens_ , what a mess.”

Crowley arched a brow. “Are you referring to Gabriel or the meek?”

“The _mice_.”

“Pity.”

Aziraphale stared out at the ballroom. He flinched and cleared his throat, then forced his muscles still. The dancers had worked their way up to a splendid side-stepping trot, and he suddenly felt that his jacket was several sizes too small; beneath linen and lace, the skin at the back of his neck began to itch.

“Look,” Crowley said briskly, “why don’t _you_ dance if you’re so keen on it?”

“ _Me?_ ” Aziraphale replied, at once taken aback and alight at the thought. “Oh, no. No.”

Crowley snorted.

“D’you suppose we ought to leave, then? It doesn’t seem quite _right_ to stand about at a party like this, looking aloof and not caring to dance. Rather ill-mannered, one feels.”

“Certain vintages have the tendency to do that to a person,” said Crowley, taking an appreciative gulp of his claret. “It’s the preferred spirit of the revolution, you know.”

“They might’ve had better luck fitting all of that tempestuous energy in a brandy glass.”

“It isn’t the size, angel, but the handling that counts.”

“Mm.” Aziraphale made a vague gesture towards the tangle of tip-toeing couples. “I say, but isn’t that the...Um.”

“Waltz.”

“Yes, the waltz. A German dance, is it not?” Aziraphale murmured, his voice sinking into the domain of eminent disapproval. The dancers looped in and out of the chandeliers’ glare, forward and backward over the polished floor. They paid him no attention, nor did they seem fatigued by the overpowering heat, content as they were to admire each other in the great mirrors which reflected light and light again until the night was brighter than the day. He felt a renewed urge to shuffle his feet, but concluded in a low voice, “Scandalous.”

Crowley shrugged. “I guess,” he said.

“Look there!” Aziraphale whispered fiercely, after another moment. “That man just placed his hand on his partner’s _bosom_.”

“Must’ve slipped on all that silk.”

“The things you consent to for the sake of your people.”

“Consent? You realize he’s the local vicar,” Crowley said, cheering a bit. “Bought her the dress and wrote it off as a business expense, I expect.”

“I see nothing wrong with stretching one’s resources to the best of one’s ability.”

“Philosophical double-standards are always the best, aren’t they? Topnotch. Or perhaps just a notch on the bedpost. Wait’ll she discovers that he is the country cousin.”

“ _Really_.”

Crowley gave a low, appreciative laugh. “Even so... I seem to remember you asserting that the waltz is far better than the quadrille.”

Aziraphale grimaced. “I was being theoretical,” he sniffed. “Besides which, I actually only said that if I happened to be put into the position where I was forced to choose between them, I would select the waltz.”

“Oh?”

“But I wouldn’t enjoy it.”

“No doubt,” said Crowley. “No doubt you would have two... right feet.”

Aziraphale tilted his head. “Left feet.”

Crowley smiled, unperturbed. “What was it you said? The quadrille makes marionettes of dancers? Or was it maypoles of monkeys?”

“ _That_ was in reference to the minuet. And not to say I know the slightest thing about popular entertainments, but the quadrille leaves rather more to the imagination.”

“Clearly you’ve not lately been to Spain.”

“Ha, ha,” Aziraphale said. And then, quickly: “However, _both_ are superior to the rigadoon.”

“The quadrille, superior to the rigadoon? You must be joking.”

“Naturally, not.”

“Well, it isn’t as easy as it looks, you know. It takes a lot of _commitment_ to force one’s feet into those angles.”

“To say nothing of a proper dose of laudanum.”

“Yes, there’s that,” Crowley said, affably.

Aziraphale sighed.

They watched as the dancers broke apart with the final notes of the tune, only to reform into a greater group with the first strains of another. Here was a step to the left, there one to the right: ladies in lace and bright silks spun as would butterflies about spring blossoms, but the gentlemen seemed as somber and silent as shelled beetles in the night. The jovial frocks of past decades were at last being enveloped by dark jackets and tightly-bounded cravats; Aziraphale wore aged red velvet, and felt better for it. He aided a passing servant in lessening his load by rescuing a fresh glass of claret from his gilded tray.

“But the waltz? Now there’s a dance one oughtn’t set one’s pocket watch to,” Crowley was saying. “The Germans knew just what they were doing.”

“Or whom they were duping,” Aziraphale countered lightly.

“What?”

“Oh, it _looks_ quite difficult, certainly, but I do believe it is in fact quite easy.”

“You’ve got it backwards,” Crowley said.

“One must read up on one’s opposition, but naturally you know that already. No. I think--” here Aziraphale paused to sip his wine “--it’s no harder than walking.”

“You’d be surprised, angel. You really would.”

Aziraphale arched a brow. Two could play at this; it wasn’t so hard.

“Yeah,” Crowley continued. “It’s not at all what one would expect.”

“And would you care to demonstrate?”

“Demonstrate?”

“Well, if it’s too much trouble, you needn’t worry...”

“Of course it isn’t too much trouble,” Crowley scoffed, and took a long step forward. He narrowed his eyes. “Trouble? I all but _invented_ it.”

Aziraphale smiled, expecting to hear as much. “And what of a partner?”

“I could dance with anyone in the room without batting an eye.”

“Anyone?” Aziraphale felt a sudden pinch in his stomach, but he did not turn to see Crowley’s smile.

Crowley nodded. “I could jolly well have the Duchess, her party, and all of her chambermaids.”

“Good,” said Aziraphale, a trifle pettishly.

“Good,” Crowley replied. With that, he strode off into the swell of the crowd, pausing here and there to survey the walls for flowers, ivy, and at last a suitable partner. It was without a beat of hesitation that he stood before her, a pretty girl in green brocade, and leaned forward to whisper in her ear. She flushed crimson, but nodded with a smile, and took his proffered hand. Together, they waited for the next dance, and Crowley caught Aziraphale’s eye with a wink.

“Well, I’ll be,” Aziraphale murmured, attempting to suddenly take great interest in the wilted condition of his buttonhole. He brushed at the petals and tugged upon the pin; for a moment, the rose remained parched and touched with blight, but then expanded into the grateful impersonation of a silk handkerchief.

Aziraphale used it to wipe the sweat from his brow.

He might have said that Crowley’s steps were the surest in the room, but it would have been the equivalent of saying that at that moment, the other dancers seemed to be struggling through a sea of molasses. The girl in green brocade had closed her eyes.

With a cough, Aziraphale turned to face the wall, and was greeted by the glowering portrait of a bewigged, bespectacled man. He held a hunting rifle and was flanked on either side by a gaunt pair of hounds; far behind him, a stag waited for the inevitable. There was no fear in its wide, glassy eyes.

“Do you think it a good composition?” droned a disdainful voice by Aziraphale’s side.

“Oh. The sky...” Aziraphale cleared his throat, stealing a glance to the voice’s owner, a small, plump young man wearing a dark frock, a violet waistcoat, and linen of perfect whiteness. About his cheeks was the barest suggestion of rouge, and his brow was quite pale and dry. He might have represented a thousand people, or none but himself.

Aziraphale clasped his hands behind his back, continuing, “The sky looks _very_ well. I believe the shade is what artists like to call _periwinkle_. A color for all occasions, if I do say so myself.”

“That may be, but is it a good composition?”

Aziraphale hesitated. He took a step forward and lifted his chin. From such an angle, the sitter appeared quite strong and rigid and stern, all beaked nose and flushed brow. The nearest chandelier cast a gleam across his cheeks, at once illuminating and at last betraying the fleshy mask which lay upon the cracked layer of pigment and bone. “Yes, quite remarkable,” he said.

The little man smiled. “It is a poor likeness, mother always said.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale glanced back to the portrait. “Your father?”

“My grandfather.” He buffed his little pair of silver spectacles on his handkerchief, repositioned it against his brow, and stared at Aziraphale for several moments.

“I’ll take a chance.” Aziraphale paused deliberately. “He isn’t.”  
  
“Well done, sir.” The man laughed, but the sound was laced with boredom and disappointment.

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “This is a very fine ball,” he said. “The quartet sounds very well. Is it on loan from London?”

“Vienna.” The young man’s lips twitched. His eyes narrowed. “Are you from the village?”

Aziraphale sipped his claret. “No,” he said casually, and dashed the tip of his tongue across his lips.

“A member of the family, then,” he said with great difficulty. It was not a question. “The Duchess always invites whomever she can, two hundred or more of her most intimate friends, and family members are the only ones who come. Do you think that odd?”

“Ought I to?”

“And then there’s myself.”

“Why did you come?”

“Certainly not for the fowl and foul chatter, my word.” The man shook his head. “Pray, from which side of the family tree did your apple fall?”

“Side of the family tree?” Aziraphale repeated. “Um. The old side. To the east. The first side, in fact.”

“Dover?”

“Er.” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “No, not Dover.”

“You must mean Michael’s branch, then. Tell me: how is the old deuce?”

“Oh. Well. He’s well. It’s been rather a while since I saw him last... but, yes.”

The man let out a short, nasal chuckle. “It is interesting...” He chuckled again, this time covering his mouth with the back of his gloved hand. “It is interesting, for I do believe I attended his funeral last August. Or was it September? The weather was most extraordinarily hot. One degree warmer, and I would have fallen into a swoon.”

Aziraphale felt the color drain from his cheeks. “Michael? Oh, _Michael_ , yes. I thought you said Mitchell.” He forced his mouth into something resembling a smile.

“I’m Mitchell.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

“No,” said Aziraphale. “What _is_ your name, if I might ask?”

“Brummell. And you are?”

“Fell.”

“Ah! And how is it your boots are so well shined, Mr. Fell?”

“Oh, you know,” said Aziraphale affably, “just a bit of loving care.”

“I’m sure I _don’t_ know. Alas, champagne is the only polish _I’ll_ ever use.”

Aziraphale hazarded a glance to Brummell’s feet. “I see,” he said. The boots were of course without a speck or a smudge, but he somehow had trouble stretching his mind around the image of Brummell’s immaculately manicured hands going near shine pails and rags and buffers once, let alone on a regular basis. Such acts required enormous amounts of faith and dedication, to say nothing of a decent file. He cleared his throat, and continued, “Do you find that time consuming?”

“Heavens, no! Champagne quite takes the edge from the hours, don’t you find?”

“Among other things.”

“Yes. Other things. Your friend has quite a way with the waltz,” drawled Brummell. “I’ve seen such skill in an Englishman but rarely, and I think you would be lying if you claimed you did not know of what I mean by that. His last partner was most exquisitely handsome.”

“Hmm?” Aziraphale looked up. Across the room, Crowley was bowing to a trio of bejeweled matrons. “Oh, yes. His skills are numerous.”

Brummell’s smile widened, and his eyes took on a cruel glint. “That doesn’t surprise me. One in my profession can always spot a man of talent straightaway.” He laughed; it was clearly meant to be a merry, carefree laugh, but it sounded forced and presumptuous.

“And what is it that you do, Mr. Brummell?”

“That’s exactly the point I was trying to raise: why must one commit oneself to any one thing in particular? It’s a dashed bore. Of course, I was lately in the service, but I found the society lacking. Too much color in one’s wardrobe quite seeps out one’s will to live. Red is very much the worst,” Brummell said, his spectacles flashing as he swung his gaze towards Aziraphale’s jacket. A smile crept across his features. “Yes, I simply _must_ discover who your friend’s tailor is, and then have his workshop bought out by my own Mr. Wickham. I say, sir. Do you like looking at pictures?”

“Why, certainly,” said Aziraphale, suddenly feeling that he was once more back on familiar territory. He glanced over his shoulder: Crowley was still bowing, though the matrons were somewhat less bejeweled. “You might say I love looking at pictures.”

Without another word, Brummell took him by the elbow and led him from the room.

Aziraphale knew he must not glance back, and when he did, he saw that the crowd had been quick to fill in the spot he so recently occupied. Each face was livid with wine and merriment; every question was answered in the affirmative. The music whirled on, but as the laughter grew dim, the din of his footsteps rose first to an echo and then to a steady thump on the oiled floor.

“I have seen many pictures in my life, my dear Master Fell,” Brummell was saying, “but few so painstakingly detailed as those I have seen here.”

“Landscapes?” Aziraphale asked, catching the scent of dust and embers as they trailed through the second parlor and down a narrow hall.

“Not landscapes,” said Brummell. His pace was brisk, but not without grace, and he spirited a lamp from a hook on the wall, leaving the corridor behind them to continue on in peaceable darkness. “Not landscapes as you would have them be, overrun abbey ruins and Romantic elms, pink elephants on parade in the ha-ha and whimsical briar patches in good Auntie’s glen. You are a Romantic, are you not? I can detect a Romantic without fail. Romantics are men of talent. But no, I fear I am ahead of myself. These pictures are of a very _particular_ sort, so much more than a bewildering distraction _sans musique_. They are from Paris.”

Aziraphale felt a prickle at the back of his neck at the sight of the spiraled staircase which they presently began to ascend, one creaking step after another, up and up until they reached yet another corridor. The house seemed larger than it had looked upon his arrival, or more substantial than it was: halls flowed into yet more halls, and rooms stretched into the immeasurable depths of shadow. A dusty corner might just as easily go on forever as end without warning. He could not shake the feeling that he had come quite a long way, and that he was doing something which certainly ought not to be done. “You know your way around quite well,” he said, wary of raising his voice above a whisper.

“Not so,” laughed Brummell, and opened one of the wide teak doors which loomed before them. “When one has been in as many country houses as I, one learns that a certain sense of history is all one needs to find one’s way. But look: here we are now.”

And Aziraphale did look, though he had stopped listening some moments before, so massive and beguiling were the paintings which adorned the gallery walls.

There were dukes and duchesses, yes, and perhaps an aged prince and his entourage, but there were also great likenesses of Greek gods and goddesses, fawns and satyrs and nymphs in a frenzy of high festivities. They danced and drank and made merry beneath drooping willow boughs without worry of time or place. It seemed at first that there was little order or reason to each canvas, but then again no: here and there arose a smooth, calming pattern of light and shadow, the arching form of a horn, the curve of a bejeweled goblet and a breast, the imprint of hoof and paw and fleshy sole upon the ground.

“Marvelous,” Aziraphale said, after a long moment. “The craftsmanship -- the _composition_ \-- is quite fine.”

“Indeed.” Carefully pulling back the encasement of his lamp, Brummell set alight the first wicks of the candelabra that stood beside them. He lingered before it for a moment, either making sure that it would not go out or admiring its form, and in the alternating patches of light and ruddy gloom which covered his features, his eyes could not be seen. A shadow seemed to cross his face; he shuddered, and then smiled very slowly. “That’s better, I trust,” he said, though the fickle, guttering flames failed to break the darkness of the room. “Do the pictures meet with your approval?”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. He took a step back, arching his neck to get a clearer view of the Bacchian spectacles which loomed before him, and then returned his attention to Brummell. “They are quite the finest I’ve seen in some years. But I fear I have misplaced my claret.”

“My word,” chuckled Brummell, “but you do raise a fine point.” He shook his head and crossed the room, lingering before a high cabinet staked higher with bottles and glinting crystal glasses. He retrieved and filled one, and then another.

Aziraphale accepted it with a grateful smile, but could not ignore the racketing chill which spilled up his spine as Brummell’s hand lingered on his own. “Well,” he said, “I really should be leaving soon. I’m sure my friend is waiting for me downstairs. I’ve an early morning appointment, you understand.”

“Yes, of course,” Brummell said with the same smile, pausing for a moment to drain and set down his glass. “It is not everyday one feels one can connect with someone at a party. Do you know, I have not felt this invigorated by conversation in months?”

“Really?”

“No.”

“No,” Aziraphale repeated, but as soon as the word had left his mouth, Brummell swung round and pressed his lips against Aziraphale’s own. He tasted of claret and stale pipe tobacco, and it was all Aziraphale could do to maneuver his hands onto Brummell’s shoulders and lightly push him away.

Brummell reeled backwards, erupting into peals of laughter as he collapsed into a plush armchair which had lately been in the entertainment hall of one Mrs. Doris Dovecot of Odessa Wharf, Rotherhithe. “Do you know,” he began, with tears running down his cheeks. “Have you any conception of who I am?”

“That will be quite enough,” said Aziraphale. “Now, if you will allow me to-- Oh _dear_. Now, that isn’t... Um. Haven’t you a handkerchief of your own?”

“I gave it to a young lady from Richmond earlier this evening,” Brummell coughed, and blew his nose into the recently commandeered folds of Aziraphale’s handkerchief. “Hands like doves, you know. _She’d_ apparently given hers to a chap from Brighton, on account of his impending conscription. Oh, Mr. Fell! You cannot imagine the torments I have suffered tonight as a result. I have _hundreds_ of them at my rooms in Mayfair.”

“Er. Well, consider this one yours.”

“Thank you.” With that, Brummell appeared to once more take up the cause for flawlessness, but failing there, he settled on partial composure, and so he dabbed the handkerchief at his reddened eyes, across his cheeks and brow, and set it aside with a discreet and faintly disgusted flick of his wrist.

The linen at his throat was less inclined to cooperate. Brummell pulled at it for several moments before allowing the knot to continue on in something rather markedly less than symmetry. He sighed, and his features regained the look of world-weary sharpness. “Thank you,” he said again.

“It’s nothing,” Aziraphale said easily, and took a step backwards. He realized suddenly that, in the tussle, his glass had slipped from his hand and fallen to the floor. It was still there, empty but intact; the wine had left a boot-shaped blotch on the carpet, and he imagined that if he tilted his head just so, and focused his eyes in the flickering candlelight as such, he could make out where Rome would be.

The second time Brummell tried to kiss him, Aziraphale was not caught unawares, or not completely: the chair creaked and let slip the most labored of groans as Brummell lurched forward, his hands firmly grasping upon Aziraphale’s lapels. He missed Aziraphale’s mouth entirely, and gasped for a moment before settling on the area below the angel’s left ear. Aziraphale stepped back and back again, left and right and directly against the candelabra.

Brummell stopped in his tracks at the sound of silver on stone.

The candle guttered, then rose.

The carpet caught fire. The imagined city began to burn.

Aziraphale drew in a breath, paused, and snapped his fingers.

“There,” he said in a slow and distinct voice. He at once felt incandescent and mild; both of his feet were planted firmly on the ground. For a moment, a whiff of smoke lingered in the air and on his tongue like a silken spectre, but then it too faded, and all the scent that remained was that of several centuries’ worth of dust. He cleared his throat. “Now, if you’ll kindly be seated.”

Brummell sat, and was silent.

“There’s a chap,” Aziraphale said, placing his hands behind his back. He paced back a step, and then looked Brummell squarely in the softened, faraway eye. “Tell me: why did you leave the service?”

“My regiment was relocated,” said Brummell in a hollow voice.

“Yes?”

“To Manchester.”

“Ah. And do you _actually_ shine your boots with champagne?”

Brummell hesitated. “Soda-water,” he said.

“What will be the most popular scents of the season?”

“Sandalwood. Dark musk. Anise.”

“Together or apart?”

“A fine combination of the three,” whispered Brummell. “Thoughtful and brooding with a hint of the summer rain, like the His Majesty the Prince Regent himself.”

Aziraphale moved forward. “I see,” he said, feeling that he was getting somewhere. “And the favored color?”

“Red.”

“Red?”

“Yes.”

“Neckwear?”

“Ever more elaborately knotted linen.”

Aziraphale sighed. “And the waltz?”

“It is the boldest invention possible, and the most fashionable.”

“Good. And now, you must listen carefully, dear boy. You will devote your life to something worthwhile.” Aziraphale made a vague gesture. “Workers’ rights or physics or something.”

“Physiques,” Brummell mumbled, “and the abolishment of textile factories. Inferior thread count. Like John the Baptist, I will prepare the way.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“Spirits. Burgundy, port, sherry, merlot...”

“Good,” Aziraphale said again, and leaned forward. “In thirty seconds, you will awaken from a wonderful dream you have had about your new life. You will be inspired to seek out new ways to--”

One of the doors swung open with a great groaning creak. It was Crowley. “Aziraphale, I think we’d better-- Oh.” He paused, his eyes suddenly falling on Brummell. “Um. Hope I’m not disturbing anything?”

“No, of course not,” said Aziraphale. He lifted his hand from Brummell’s shoulder, straightening his posture. “I was just giving this young man a bit of advice.”

“Got a stain on his waistcoat, has he?”

“Something like that.”

Crowley arched a brow. “Well, perhaps you’d better take it outside. The party’s over.”

“I’ve never been happier to hear it,” said Aziraphale, a bit too jovially.

\------------------

“You’re certain everyone got out safely?” Aziraphale asked, and wrung his hands together. There were groups of people positioned across the lawn and before the paddock, gossiping here and there while others waited for their coachmen and lackeys to bring round their carriages. The general air was still that of frivolity and merriment rather than of panic, and Aziraphale began to wonder whether there had been more to the wine than wine. All the while, the country house burned.

“Sure I’m sure,” said Crowley. “Look, it wasn’t _my_ doing any more than it was yours. It was a merely a parlor game that got a bit out of hand, end of story.”

“Blind man’s bluff?”

“With an added twist.”

“Polite society dictates that Chinese rockets are _not_ acceptable indoor playthings.”

“How was I supposed to know Lord and Lady Featherstone were into that sort of thing?”

“That sort of thing _is_ your sort of thing,” Aziraphale said. And then: “Well, Hell’s.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t you think we ought to _do_ something? All those marvelous paintings, lost...” Aziraphale stared up at the house, or what was left of it: the fire had quite consumed the lower floor by the time he and Crowley made it outside. He imagined the mirrors of the grand ballroom as they appeared not an hour before, all smiling faces and shimmering gowns, and shivered to think of what they must have become.

“We?” Crowley smiled. “That’s a bit of a stretch. I expect they’ll have it out soon enough, and if they don’t, let’s hope they ordered fire insurance.”

“What?”

Crowley’s smile widened, and he began patting down his waistcoat and jacket. “Nothing,” he said. He drew a small bundle from his pocket. It was a silk handkerchief. “Or practically nothing. Here. Take it.”

Aziraphale frowned. “What is it?”

“I told you: it’s nothing.”

But it weighed a bit more than nothing, and the golden pin which tore into Aziraphale’s skin as he parted the handkerchief was certainly real enough to draw blood. “Oh _dear_ ,” he said, sucking upon the tip of his finger until it healed. “I can’t possibly accept this.”

Almost imperceptibly, Crowley’s features hardened. “Why not?” he asked. “I thought you _liked_ useless trinkets.”

“It isn’t that,” Aziraphale said. He held the brooch up before his eyes, and its ruby-studded petals glinted warmly in the flickering light of the fire. It was a rose, gentle and cruel. It perfectly matched his most recently acquired snuffbox. He retrieved the box from his trouser pocket and glanced between them, murmuring, “Uncanny.”

“I had a feeling it would be. Looks good on you.”

“Does it?” Aziraphale pinned it into place, then tugged upon his lapel. “Well?”

Crowley smiled lightly, and said in a clear voice, “Yeah.”

“Lovely. It was really rather sharp of you to spot...” he trailed off. There was a scrabbling sound in the bushes behind them. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

The scrabbling became creaking and the creaking became a colorful thread of obscenities.

“ _That_ ,” said Aziraphale.

Before Crowley could answer, a figure rose up from the shadowed branches and briars, dusted off its trousers and sleeves, and strode forward.

“I say,” said Brummell, for it was he, “have either of you a pinch of snuff?”

“No,” Crowley and Aziraphale replied in unison.

“Er,” Aziraphale said, coloring slightly. “That is to say, I’ve run out.”

“Ah!” said Brummell dazedly. There was a smudge of soot across each of his cheeks, and his hair fell limply about his temples. He was grinning. “Well. Thank you.”

When he had gone, Crowley ventured, “It looks as though he was able to get the stain out. Claret, was it?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale replied.

“What a waste,” Crowley said, and shook his head. And then: “Oh, by the bye, I took the liberty of responding to your mail the other day.”

“You _what_?”

“The letter on your desk beneath that bloody great big stack of books. It was an invitation. Didn’t you know?”

“Not exactly,” said Aziraphale, though he had of course known. The party was to be held in St. John’s Wood. He was familiar with the host and hostess in only the vaguest of terms, but also in terms that he understood the syntax of quite well: several months ago, they had bought from him a parcel of contraband Parisian manuscripts. He had ignored the invitation with a subtle mixture of tact and will for the better part of a week.

Crowley shrugged. “Well, anyway, the ball is tomorrow.”

“Oh.”

“I assumed you forgot to reply, and so being the conscientious sort of fellow that I am, I sent it along myself. Have I ever told you how extraordinarily simple it is to imitate your handwriting?”

Aziraphale felt the color drain from his cheeks. “I don’t believe so,” he said. “What did you tell them?”

“What do you _think_ I told them?”

“That I’ll be attending.”

“No, you’ve got it-- _What?_ You mean you actually _wanted_ to go?”

Aziraphale shook his head briskly. He thought: Yes, and this how it cannot be. “Certainly not.”

“Right,” said Crowley. He was silent for a moment, but then continued, “Well, you’ll be expected to attend.”

“Yes, I suppose I will.”

“And you won’t be able to readily back out of it.”

“No.”

Crowley grinned. “Great. I’ll pick you up at seven. That’s, oh...” He examined his pocket watch in the shifting light. “Sixteen hours away.”

“I can hardly contain my excitement,” Aziraphale said dryly.

He told himself this: I will go, but I will not enjoy it.

He would not dance the waltz, or the minuet, or the rigadoon.

They walked together to Crowley’s carriage, and he counted his steps beneath his breath. Far to the other side of the lawn, the string quarter began to play a jolly tune for the remaining guests, and slowly but surely, the fire died down.


End file.
